


A Drop of the Sky, a Leaf off a Tree.

by Asdgafn



Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Artist!Cass, I wrote this in like an hour, M/M, Soulmate AU, Supernatural - Freeform, castiel novak - Freeform, idk what tags to use, its just a cute little fic, mechanic!Dean, not Angel!Castiel, not canon, not edited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:30:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8500627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asdgafn/pseuds/Asdgafn
Summary: Prompt: Soul mate AU where you cannot see the colour of your soul mate's eyes until after you meet and make eye contact. 
Castiel Novak was, well, he was a little bit of something and a whole lot of nothing. Three days a week he goes to college, four days a week he works and works and works. Between each day he sleeps very little and draws too much, painting his life as it flies right by with a splash of colour here and a bold line there. His hands were always stained with flecks and swipes of paint, finger tips smudged with pencil and charcoal. 
Dean Winchester was a wildfire, scorching through life in a whirl of heat and smoke. During the day he worked, a mechanic with oil stains on his hands and ingrained in his clothes. During the night he lived, another guy that winked at everything passing him by, too much alcohol sliding down his throat. He drank liquor like water, relishing the burn down his throat, the singe of it in his veins, and the comfortable blanket it threw over his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in like an hour and I didn't edit. It was just a cute idea that I saw on tumblr and just had to write. Hope you all like it!

Castiel Novak was, well, he was a little bit of something and a whole lot of nothing. Three days a week he goes to college, four days a week he works and works and works. Between each day he sleeps very little and draws too much, painting his life as it flies right by with a splash of colour here and a bold line there. His hands were always stained with flecks and swipes of paint, finger tips smudged with pencil and charcoal.

Today was just like every other day, rushing past him with barely a chance to breathe, leaving him to stumble along and hope he didn’t fall behind. His hands worked without rest, scanning and packing each item even as he faked a smile and cheer, eyes dancing with false happiness. Most barely responded to him, some mumbled a ‘thank you’ and ‘good day’, and a scarce few bothered to ask about his day, eyes sliding away even as they forgot his reply before it was spoken.

That was how it was in customer service. Each person was too busy, they wanted to march on with their life, newly bought items in tow. Especially where he worked, an auto part store that doubled as a mechanic repair service. Most purchases that were scanned with his hands were needed immediately to fix the customer’s car and get them back into the flow of a busy life. When they spoke, it was in hurried and harried tones that asked for immediate relief as they requested to know where their needed item was.

And when the lights dimmed to a dull glow, signaling the end of his day, he quietly counted the register and cleaned up his station. He put away forgotten items, fixed up the shelves, and swept away the debris speckling the aisles. He said a quiet farewell to his boss and the one other person that worked the front, leaving without a reply because there was never a reply. He hopped into his beat down car and drove away, the engine coughing and rumbling, threatening to break down at a moment’s notice.

He fumbled with his keys when he arrived home, sliding in the correct key, jiggling it just right to unlock the door. His shoes got kicked off into a laundry basket beside the door, where a few other pairs rested in a haphazard pile. His keys were hung up on a thumbtack pressed into the wall next to the door, his wallet and phone tossed onto the kitchen table as he walked by. He flipped on the lights and made a pot of coffee, the rich scent of a dark blend filling the air in seconds.

Thirty minutes later, he was actually living. A quick shower left his hair sticking up in a wet mess, a cup of coffee lay warm in his hand, and he plunked down into a worn out desk chair. He smiled genuinely for the first time that day as he spread out a sketch pad, some paint tubes, a piece of cardboard, and other various supplies. He wasted no time, clicking on his music one second, his pencil racing over the pad the next. The tip of the pencil swirled easily over the creamy paper, bringing life into the blank page with calculated swipes and strokes.

Today he drew the profile of a nondescript person, turned away from prying eyes, walking away. He sketched snug fitting jeans and a loose shirt on them, fitting them with a sturdy pair of worn out boots. He worried at his bottom lip as he worked, teeth sinking in lightly, biting down as he focused. When the basic figure was fleshed out, he changed to a thin stick of charcoal, roughing it over the paper with a few strokes. Slowly a pair of wings came to life under his hand, arcing gracefully from the back of the person he’d made.

Castiel loved drawing his namesake: Angels. He skipped the chubby features, left out the harp, and downright refused to draw the halo. Instead he drew normal people, wings carefully attached to their backs, posed as naturally as he could around their figures. Today he drew wings that were flared wide for balance, feathers ruffled in an unseen wind. Time raced by as he worked, tediously working out the details, music humming softly in the room. He only drank half the coffee, the rest turning cold in the ceramic mug.

It was nearly one in the morning when he squirted paint onto the cardboard piece, dunking a brush and mixing in bold strokes of paint in with the smooth lines of pencil and rough smears of charcoal. He turned the suggestion of wings into reality, the feathers turned blue black under his brush with hints of deep purple along the edges. The person was given the real breath of life they needed, shirt turned to clinging black fabric, jeans a washed out deep blue, boots a stained dark brown, wind tossed hair shaded dirty blond.

He smoothed dull grey and muted blues over the scenery, which was a scarce few tufts of grass, a broken sidewalk, an angry sky with heavy clouds. When the clock turned from three in the morning to four in the morning, he cleaned up the paint, left the brushes in a pool of water, and collapsed onto his rumpled bed. Within a few minutes, his short stuffy snore filled the room, mixing into the forgotten music, still murmuring through the speakers. The painting was left to dry, crookedly laid across the desk. It was painstakingly realistic… except for the tufts of grass, coloured a muted grey, looking forgotten in the vibrant colours staining the rest of the page.

Castiel was an artist, it was how he lived, and the pictures in his mind were brought to life on creamy paper. Unfortunately, he was an unlucky artist. His soul mate had green eyes, an unseen colour he grew to hate. Everything was green. Trees looked bleak and dull, their grey leaves rustling through the wind. Grass looked downright sad. The world felt so incomplete to him, especially in his paintings, always left unfinished with splats of grey to mark where green ought to be.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_

Dean Winchester was a wildfire, scorching through life in a whirl of heat and smoke. During the day he worked, a mechanic with oil stains on his hands and ingrained in his clothes. During the night he lived, another guy that winked at everything passing him by, too much alcohol sliding down his throat. He drank liquor like water, relishing the burn down his throat, the singe of it in his veins, and the comfortable blanket it threw over his life.

Right now it was the day, his hands working by memory to drain oil from the car hanging over his head. The radio crackled rock music out, his leg bouncing idly to the speeding beat. His voice sang along tunelessly, creaking through the lyrics in an ear drum stinging key. He wasn’t one that sang from talent, just for enjoyment. A splash of oil left another smudge across his cheek, joining an earlier mark from the morning hours.

When the oil was successfully changed, he rolled out from under the car, brushing clinging specks of litter from his jeans. Cat litter was great for soaking up spills but it was every damn where in the shop. Dean lowered the car down carefully before whisking away to the next, an old beast that needed a change of spark plugs. He worked tirelessly, sung tunelessly, and enjoyed every minute of it. He was a damn good mechanic, a job born from the curiosity to know every function of every part.

The ring of a bell signaled the end of his shift, loudly clanging through the roar of his music. He snatched up his coat, tossed a tool into the mess that was his tool box, and bellowed a farewell to his boss as he left. He clapped a hand against the shoulder of the mechanic trading shifts with him, wished him a good night, and was on his merry way. He slid into his car, a gorgeous ‘67 Impala, sleek black and glistening from a fresh waxing. The car roared to life with a rumble, subsiding into a smooth purr as he pulled away and raced off to his favourite bar.

And that began the night. Dean sailed into his favourite bar with a smirk on his lips and a dangerous glint in his eyes. He started strong, as he always did, ordering and slamming back two shots. He licked his lips with a swipe of his tongue, catching a few stray drops of the alcohol. The familiar warmth spread through his body, igniting his courage to wink outrageously at a scantily dressed woman a seat away from him. She blushed prettily at his advances, he bought her a drink, and half an hour later he was dropping a pick up line on a man, leaving her hanging without a second thought.

The clock read 10:30 PM when he began and had changed to 2:24 AM when he stumbled out of the bar, feet unsteady against the sidewalk. The hours always flew past him in a blur of alcohol and flirting, occasionally broken by the boo of a crowd whenever he tried karaoke, his tune broke voice grating out only a few words before he cheerfully exited the stage, shirt stained with thrown beer cups.

Tonight he went home alone, his body swayed with each step, arms swinging loosely by his side as he hummed half-forgotten lyrics. His apartment was less than a block away from the bar and he made decent time. He staggered his way through a shower, he giggled as he scrubbed away the oil stains with bland scented soap. When he got dressed, he barely made an effort, just tugging on a pair of boxers. Still humming to his half remembered song, he collapsed into a rumpled bed, passing out in between words drunkenly sung.

When the morning dawned far too soon, alarm clock blaring, he dragged himself through his usual routine. First on the list was cursing his stupidity from the night, head aching and pounding with his hangover. Next was down three aspirin with a gulp of coffee doctored with a generous pour of Baileys and woof down a hasty breakfast of cereal. Last on his list, he jerked on a wrinkled t-shirt, stained jeans, and boots with ten minutes to spare before he was late to work. He snatched his keys off the hook by the door, and so began another day of fixing car after car after car.

The Impala sped through the streets, usually five miles over the limit as he strove to arrive on time. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses to shield his eyes against the too bright glare of the sun, shining in the pale grey of the sky. That’s right, pale grey. His soul mate had blue eyes, leaving everything blue in various shades of grey. Dean never understood why people fawned over the sky, he couldn’t imagine blue being a pretty colour, not when all he saw was the depressing light grey. He supposed it could be worse, not too many things were blue.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Cass swung sleepily into the store, feet scuffing against the tile tiredly as he clocked in and took up his position near the register. Despite being minutes after 8 AM, there was already four customers milling around the store, walking in seconds after he opened the store. He offered a women a tired smile as he rang up her purchase, a new car battery, mumbling the total through a yawn. She paid and left without a word, hurrying off with a crackle of plastic.

He took a slow sip from his thermos, sighing happily at the taste of heavily sweetened coffee. Then he settled back, prepared for another day of the usual. It was a surprisingly busy morning, person after person showing up, buying, leaving with barely a word said. He got a few polite ‘hello’s and one or two ‘thank you’s, but otherwise it was a quiet and busy day. At least it was quiet to begin with.

It was almost noon when the mechanic door slammed open, doors hitting the walls. Loud rock and roll music broke the silence, startling the only customer currently inside the shop. An oil and grease stained man strolled through the doors, a content smirk settled on his lips. He moved with a self-assured swagger, boots thumping against the tile. Cass found himself staring at the man, eyes narrowing at the surprising familiarity. The mechanic bore a striking resemblance to the angel he had painted last night.

Castiel jumped slightly when he heard a polite cough, blushing bright red when he realised the customer was waiting for him to scan her items. He mumbled a quick apology, ringing up her items quickly. She just smiled at him, paid, and left without a word. He took a moment to check if any other people were in the store but, no, it was only him and the mechanic now. He was at the back wall, poking through a selection of anti-freeze while whistling cheerfully.

In the two months of working here, Cass had only met two people: his boss and the other cashier that worked the days he didn’t. He hadn’t once met or seen the mechanics, though he knew there was two. He leaned against the counter, pretending to look through a catalog when in reality he was watching the other man. Damn he was hot. Cass couldn’t help but admire the way his body flexed under snug fitting clothes as he reached for a container above his head. A small strip of his stomach showed where his shirt had ridden up. Apparently satisfied with the item, the mechanic turned away from the shelf and walked toward the check out.

Castiel straightened immediately, pushing away the catalog as a new blush stained his cheeks. He always felt awkward when he talked to good looking people. He stammered out a brief greeting before he was interrupted. “Hey there, uh, Castiel? Castiel. Can you ring this up under my name, I need it for a car out back. Some crazy ol’ lady swore she’d rip me a new one if I didn’t use this brand.” Almost as an afterthought, he added with a wink, “My name is Dean. Dean Winchester.”

The computer beeped as he pulled up the name in the computer, face a furious shade of red. He was flustered at the smooth rumble of Dean’s voice and he was downright startled at the wink and flirtatious tone, shyly looking down at his hands as he scanned the anti-freeze. Yet Castiel felt his gaze being drawn upwards as he handed the bottle over, eyes slowly traveling up the muscled plane of Dean’s chest, over his strong jawline, pausing at his lips still caught in a smirk. He blinked when Dean chuckled, a warm and amused sound, “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Dean listened to some crazy old lazy harping on about a brand of anti-freeze she wanted in her car. Her voice was shrill through the phone he had cradled between his head and shoulder, it grated his ears with every word she spoke. He made appropriate sounds to appease her before hanging up with an estimation on when her car would be ready. He carelessly tossed his phone into his tool box and went to search his stock of anti-freezes for the brand she wanted. And of course he didn’t have it out back. Just his luck!

With a frustrated curse he used a rag to wipe his hands mostly clean of oil and engine grease, throwing it down in a pile of dirty rags. Today was simply not his day. First he had accidentally touched a live wire, singing his hand with the sharp sting of electricity. Next he’d banged his head against the underside of a car when some jackass revved their engine outside, startling him even through his music. There was a small cut on his temple as a result. It had bled like crazy for nearly ten minutes. And now he had to go to the front for some stupid brand, which meant dealing with the cashier while they rang it up under his name. That always took forever.

He rolled his shoulder with a gusty sigh, taking a moment to shove down his foul mood. That half remembered song from last night popped up in his mind, and so, while humming it to himself, he marched over to the doors that led to the front. He swung them open, accidentally sending the too light doors crashing into the walls. To cover his mishap, he strolled as confidentially as possible toward the back wall where the anti-freeze was held, his killer smirk planted firmly in place.

Thankfully there was only the cashier and an old lady in the store right now, rather than a large crowd. Dean breathed a mental exhale of relief as he started scanning through what felt like a hundred and one different brands. How in the Hell were there so many different types? He stretched up on his tip toes to look at the top shelf, triumphantly seizing the correct kind when he saw it. He dropped back down and turned to head to the counter, noting the customer was gone.

He grinned when he saw the cashier bent over the counter, browsing through what looked like a catalog. He was a cutie for sure with messy black hair, looking as if he had just rolled out of bed. The cashier’s clothes were a bit strange though, a white button up with a backwards grey tie and a pair of black slacks. Nonetheless, Dean marched up to him, whistling merrily along to the tune in his head. He set down the anti-freeze, barely hearing the stuttered ‘hello’ before he breezed through the standard.

“Hey there, uh,” he squinted for a second at the name tag pinned to his shirt, “Castiel? Castiel. Can you ring this up under my name, I need it for a car out back. Some crazy ol’ lady swore she’d rip me a new one if I didn’t use this brand.” He gestured toward the mechanic’s door, rolling his eyes heavenward. The clerk didn’t even notice, he was busy scanning the item with a cute blush staining his cheeks pink. He paused for a moment before realizing he had left his name tag in his tool box. “My name is Dean. Dean Winchester,” he tossed in a wink with a playful smile, trying to coax out a reaction.

The cashier just blushed a bit more as he typed in the information on the computer, looking down at the item for a moment before looking up at Dean slowly. The mechanic wished he wasn’t so tall, he was curious to see what colour eyes the clerk had as he stared at his lips. “Take a picture, it lasts longer,” he finally said with a chuckle, amused by the shy guy. The amusement faded quickly as his world crashed to a stop around him when their eyes met. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest and he knew his mouth was hanging open stupidly.

God damn, his eyes were an astonishing clear blue. Dean finally understood why people loved the sky so much, because there was a drop of it in Castiel’s eyes. The cashier looked as floored as he felt, blinking slowly, and his breath was as uneven as Dean’s. “So, that’s what blue looks like,” the mechanic managed to splutter out, voice sounding rough even to his own ears.

Castiel was frozen to the spot, lost in the bright green eyes of an oil stained mechanic. The world finally felt complete, the missing piece slotting easily into his life. He finally had what he was missing, the bright colour that stained the trees and the grass. It was in the green of Dean’s eyes, looking like what he imagined two leafs plucked fresh from a tree would look like. Cass took a deep breath before he managed, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Dean smirked at that, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. Their lips clashed together with a slight clink of their teeth, a huff of their laughter, and the feeling of completeness that ease over them both. Dean’s work roughened hands gently cupped Castiel’s face, fingers smoothing tenderly over his cheeks. And Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, not even caring that the counter dug painfully into his ribs. Neither of them cared for anything except that perfect kiss. Not even the idea of possibly being caught by their boss.


End file.
